Lost
by sofisnotamazing
Summary: Kurt is a photographer with an unsatisfying life, searching for new prompts. Blaine is complicated, broken, struggling to keep his life together and to give a purpose to his art. Being together could destroy both of them. Tormented Artist!Blaine; Photographer!Kurt TRIGGER WARNING: suicide attempt, mental illness, self harm.
1. chapter 1

_I wish I could love, but I seem to have lost the passion, and forgotten the desire. I am too much concentrated on myself. My own personality has become a burden to me. I want to escape, to go away, to forget._

-the picture of Dorian Gray

I can barely seeanything, the light is dim and filtered by the thick walls of the houses around me, it must be late in the afternoon judging by the sky above.

I don't know where I am, nor where I am going, the only guide I have is this melody, that grows more and more intense every minute.

It is heartbreaking, yet sweet, like a lament from an unknown land; mermaids maybe, since it seems to attract me so much. It enters my veins, my brain, my bones, making me feel new sensations at every note. I have no longer control over myself, the music is abducting, seductive, almost. My aimless wander has become a quest: I can't live without knowing the origin of this struggling and yet so beautiful sound. I've never heard anything like this before.

Long lost memories resurface, forcing me to listen to thoughts i kept silent for so long.

 _My father is lying dead in front of me, his cold hand in mine, while I refuse to let him go. His pulse is absent and everything is silent around us, he exhaled his last breath without even saying goodbye, ending his unconscious living. Now the years start to go backwards, he and mum are cooking dinner, well, mum is cooking dinner while he is stealing the ingredients and she pretends not to see anything. she is smiling and humming to an old song, her blue eyes cheerful and bright. now I'm opening the letter from NYU,_ _learning I have been rejected; pieces of my expensive camera are shattered on the floor and i stare at them for hours. my future is gone and the camera is no longer of use. i try to fix it the next day, try to bring back to life what was my 16th birthday present. I remember taking one of the last pictures of dad for his and Carole's anniversary. and now it's gone,_ he' _s_ _gone._ _I'm alone, nothing seems familiar anymore; all i can see in people's smile is pity, even the bullying has stopped for a few months and i can't tell if it's a good thing._

My eyes are wet with tears of grief and my chest is aching, everything is so surreal right now: the music, the atmosphere, this enclosing sadness around me, I am lost and I crave for more. I can hear no sound beside the music, no one is present, it is just me, wandering across an unknown city, while the cold air starts piercing my bare arms and face. The houses are built with no space between them, the fading light of the afternoon falls upon them remarking their grey shades and adding more desolation to the scene. Here and there an abandoned dog lays on the pavement and turns his begging look at me, probably searching for food, and old and dusty sheets hang from the balconies. How I'd like to take out my camera now and frame this, the purity of poverty here is almost touchable. I have never seen anything so real before.

My pace is faster and I am no longer tired, but the melody seems to stop. I am desperate, and I search for a sign, anything about the mysterious song. It suddenly starts again, for my relief.

And here he is: the author.

He's standing in a corner, his dark tee is leaving two inches of tanned skin visible, showing just the beginning of his defined hips; his jeans are loose and dirty, probably even broken somewhere. I can't see his face, just the dark, greasy curls covering the back of his head and the way he's holding the violin, his fingers tangling delicately on the wood, almost cradling it.

I am enchanted and delighted by the view, photographing this would be the highlight of my career, yet I'm scared it might ruin everything. I don't want to frighten him, I just wish to absorb everything I can before it's all finished. What will I do then?

I notice the case open on the ground, a few cents shining in the dark and I search frantically in my pockets. I can see him as I place the coins, his eyes are closed and his bushing eyebrows are frowning in what seems deep sorrow, his head is resting on the top of the violin. If he wasn't playing I'd say he was sleeping a very troubled and dreamless sleep. He has no public beside me but he doesn't seem to care. He's not playing for anybody. This is _his_ music and I feel like I'm invading something private and sacred, something I shouldn't be witnessing.

He must have heard the coins falling on the velvet of the case, for his eyes open and settle upon me.

I am chickened out but sort of addicted to his look. His gaze is firm and his eyes...whoa...they are something indescribable, like his music; a mixture of amber and brown, of nightmare and dream, of heaven and hell. They are piercing and strong, he's observing me, head to toe. I'm not danger, I'd like to tell him, but the words stay unspoken in my mouth, and my lips move without any sound. Who is this man and why does he and his music affect me so much? what sort of spell has he cast and why? why have I, Kurt Hummel, been chosen to play the victim of it? Why does my life seem empty now and the only thing able of keeping me alive is this music?

I don't know what to do: do I walk away, do I wait for the ending, but when will it come? And will it? My questions are answered for he abruptly stops and disappears from view.

A vision. He was a vision.


	2. chapter 2

A/N: I don't know where I am going with this fic, enjoy it while it lasts.

Sorry for the first part...it was hard for me to write that too, okay?

•x•

I wake up still unsure about what I witnessed last night, the memory is hazy and blurry in my not-fully-waken mind. Was it all a dream, or maybe a hallucination... and what if that magical creature was real? That's the thing with photography...it's always real.

I turn around and try to shrug off all of the intrusive thoughts I have been having since yesterday. How many times have I photographed her, discovering and exposing every secret, every little detail of her fair skin, every inch of that body that once made my heart race behind my ribs.

She once seemed perfect, sitting for me in the morning sun: her cognac coloured curls against the white wall, her eyes, so transparent and true and the little brown freckles on her nose and cheeks that would only become more in summer. All her pictures showed grace and passion, like her colours, red and white. But the more time passes the more her photographs around the house seem out of place and wrong. Everything just seems wrong at times, but that...that thing I saw last night, it was steer perfection, tormented perfection. It all seemed to fit perfectly in a picture I have taken just inside my mind.

"Hey" Natalie whispers softly in my ear, tangling her legs around mine and caressing my cheek with her delicate nose. Her body presses against my bare chest and she shivers slightly, her side rubs against mine to find some warmth.

How would I trade all of this for another note...I disgust myself, trade the woman I...I love, for something I don't know and I will definitely never see again.

She presses her dry lips on my neck and starts biting and sucking the skin around my clavicle, I don't feel anything.

"Natie, we got to go" my voice sounds harsh and distant. I push her on the side delicately. I can't fulfill her, not now, and I don't think I'll ever be able to make her happy again.

"Can't your friends just wait?" she is still half asleep and I have already disappointed her.

Am I giving this up? A four years relationship gone just because passion has died? Shall I throw her away like a used toy?

I observe her as she gets dressed, every piece of clothing accentuates the contrast between her complexion and her hair and lips. I will not be that monster.

•x•

There is something strange about the city today: everything seems so gray and lifeless, even the voices of my lifelong friends are plain. They love Natalie, she captured them with her smile and her light sarcasm the very first time they met and since then they seem to never get tired of her. Not as tired as I am of walking through this rather monotonous streets.

Suddenly I hear a note. No...it can't be him again, I'm surely in some sort of hallucination.

Curiosity wins over rationality and my eyes wander searching for that familiar silhouette. He is not far: dark, handsome, his music creating an aura around him. He has much more public today, but his eyes, his marvellous, mysterious eyes, are still closed, still absorbed by that distracting melody.

"Will you excuse me?" I say interrupting Marc, a handful of questioning glares fall upon me, brows frowning in concern when I walk away. "Go on without me" I almost yell.

I am now just a few feet away, walking through the crowd around him. Their mouths are wide open as they stare at the artist in front of them. They are all intruding something that I want to be just mine, something I thought was made for me only. I am in the front row, probably the first he'll see when he'll wake from his conscious sleep.

"Still the guy with the violin, huh?" The words flow out of my mouth before I can think about it. I feel so stupid. Of course he's still the guy with the violin, he's playing a fucking violin. He opens his eyes slowly, raises his eyebrows perplexed and, for the first time, stops playing.

"Still the lost tourist" he states. His voice is exactly as I imagined it, smooth like silk and warm.

The people around us are complaining for the interruption as we stare into each other's eyes. I am completely lost.

"Please take me away" I beg.

I don't even know what I meant, I lost all control over my mind and my words after our first encounter, but I know why I said it. This is not a spell or an enchantment, it's my chance to escape.

I can tell he's still puzzled, who wouldn't be? But he unexpectedly takes me by the wrist and we turn the corner.

••

His grip is strong and his callous and warm hand is firmly pressed against my pumping veins.

I watch him, trying to capture what is so mysterious about him: his eyes are even more beautiful at such short distance, distracted and intense, his curls are messy and oily, but somehow charming in the end. Why is this boy like a magnet to me?

He's leading me somewhere, and my body feels lighter. I want to laugh and cry, jump and shout at the top of my lungs. I trust my hand in his, it's completely irrational and so not-Kurt, but I can't help feeling relieved.

"You really can't stand them, can you?" the sound of his voice makes my heart jump in surprise, he hadn't talked till now.

"Well...I...uhm" I'm short on words, offended. He dares saying I can't stand my own best friends, but there is a slight part of my brain telling that maybe, somehow, he is right. "I wanted to escape from...reality, I guess?" my sentence sounds more like a question that doesn't get any answer.

I can hear his breath, regular and deep, and his pulse against mine. That's the only thing telling me he is real and not a cruel joke of my imagination.

Around us people live, eat, chat, each one is busy in a different activity. They don't notice us.

The boy drifts and takes me in a deserted bar, without even asking for my approval.

Everything is dusty in here, tables, chairs, glasses, even the owner seems dusty, with his hunch back and his graying moustache. He doesn't even turn to us, occupied with his newspaper.

The violinist jumps on a chair and taps on the other, asking me to sit next to him.

"Two vodkas" he shouts at the owner, lighting a cigarette. He offers me one just by raising an eyebrow.

"I don't smoke, thanks." He replies scrolling his shoulders and putting the lighter away.

The only noise now is the barista, moving slowly behind the counter with heavy steps.

"Where from?" he interrupts the silence, his hand trembles as he takes the cigarette out of his pink and chapped lips.

"New York. Well, I'm actually from Ohio but I live in the big apple as we speak" I'm being too wordy, as usual. He shoots a glare at me again, probably trying to understand why I asked him to rescue me from a life that is apparently perfect. I'm healthy, pursuing my dreams and able to afford an apartment in one of the most expensive cities of the world. I have no right to complain, not if I compare myself to a street artist.

He drinks his vodka in a sole swallow, showing the burn in his throat with a short lasting flicker of the eye.

"Drink, fast. I have a place in mind" he demands. He doesn't talk much and he keeps it short when he does, most of the time he's just tapping a melody nervously with his long and thin fingers.

I do as he orders. Hell. It burns. I am choking on my own cough. He must be amused by my inexperience with alcohol, for he gives a smirk. I want to see him smile, not a smirk or a light stretching, a proper grin, I want to see how more marvellous he can get before I have to go back.

The boy extracts a bunch of dirty coins from his pocket and leaves them on the table, once again he drags me out with his vehemence.

For once in my life I have no control of what the hell is happening and though it is unfamiliar and extremely peculiar, I feel free.

We reach an arch in the shadows, many houses surround us but no sound comes out of them. This city is always so silent, yet the adrenaline makes my blood fill my ears with its rhythm.

"Like the city?" he asks, his voice raspy, finally throwing what is left of the cigarette away. He is near, very near. I can feel my heart overwhelmed by the thought of what he might do next, it wants to escape from its cage.

He's moving his mouth but I hear no sound, all I can see are his lips terrifyingly close to mine. I mutter something that is vaguely similar to a "somebody could see us" but his finger is faster to reach my mouth and the gently touch of his warm skin on my fresh lips makes my mind go blank. There's no Natie, no work, no dead father, just me and this magical, handsome boy in front of me.

Now his mouth is on mine, caressing, soft. I part my lips and his tongue encounters mine, making a ballroom of my mouth. He tastes like tobacco and a scent of vodka is all over his upper lip. He keeps kissing me against the brick wall. My back encounters the hard material but I'm too busy focusing on what is happening to the rest of my body.

I need something to keep me stable so I reach for his fluffy, curly hair and pull it softly.

I let out a delighted moan as our lips are playing hide and seek in this sweet and strange dance we are both leading. My stomach flutters and my mind wanders through unexplored lands.

I am now completely hard, his hands wander under my shirt, playing with the material and feeling my skin. He brushes against my bulge with his hips, his mouth is now on my neck tracing my collarbone.

I hear my phone buzzing in my back pocket. Natie.I pull him in one last, fierce and breathless kiss before I push him away.

"I have a girlfriend" I say, out of breath and completely, hopelessly heated.

"Never stopped me before" he replies, his right hand reaching for my waist again.

It takes all of my strength to deny his offer "I am not a cheater"

I glance at him one last time. His hair is pulled back, his eyes have now lost that excited glimpse and he looks like a dog that has just been scolded. Why do I feel sorry for him, someone I don't even know and dragged me all the way to a deserted spot just to hook up with me?

"Fine" he yells, visibly disappointed. I'm not a sex object, I'm not here to satisfy his need and frustration, yet the guilt knots my stomach and my whole body feels heavier.

I walk away as rapidly as I can, knowing that if I turn one last time I'll never go back.


	3. chapter 3

A/N: this fic will be highly focused on Blaine (as far as I can go with Kurt's point of view) so enjoy a little more Kurt for now.

Please leave a review and let me know what you think of this :)

••

"Where have you been?"

Shit.

Natalie barely raises her eyes from her book, as if she was casually noticing my presence, but her words are like a knife, precise and demanding. That's her little trick: staying calm during the storm, it drives people mad and she knows it.

"I needed to think" I have been dreading this moment since I left the violinist this morning. I have been gone for hours, trying to clear my mind wandering through the streets, but this weight on my stomach has only increased.

"I called you all day long. You could have been everywhere!" the volume of her voice increases and she slams the book on the table. This is when she gets angry: her eyes become ice cold, her body tenses and she starts yelling. She also ruins beautiful books as The Shadow of the Wind, lately.

"Can you _at least_ explain why you left me and _your_ friends, who you know I can't stand? I think you owe me at this point." She is so different from the girl I once knew, or maybe she is the same and I just realised it too late. We met at an exhibition; she was so shy back then, the blush on her cheeks made her become a monochrome appearance, her complexion now bright red matching her hair and her turtle neck cardigan. Her stuttering presentation of masterpieces costed her a firing, but we didn't really care at the time, we were young and dreams came and went. How the tables have turned. The girl in front of me crosses her arms to look at the time, she measures how long it takes her to win an argument. But can I really say I am the same boy of that day?

"It's all about you, isn't it? Poor, poor girl, forced to spend time with people she doesn't like. Well I like them, your approval is not required." I cover my mouth with a hand, but it's too late. It's the first time I speak up for myself, the first time in four years that I refuse to apologise to avoid a fight I don't want to be in. What is happening to me? Why am I changing into someone completely new all of a sudden. And why am I enjoying it?

"You could have been dead!" she recovers, rapidly, her eyes wandering around the room, searching for suitable arguments "You could have been dead in a city we don't even know!" She is now much more sure about her words as she blurts them out, reassured by the sound of her own voice.

"Nice recovery" I snap. She is perplexed, she doesn't like to be contradicted and the fact that I am the one purposely upsetting her is driving her crazy.

A sudden guilt takes over, this is the girl I am supposed to marry in six months, the one I'm supposed to spend my life with. I'm not meant to hurt her, I'm not meant to upset her, I'm not meant to _cheat_ on her. I should love and cherish her with all of myself. This isn't how I expected love, not feeling like choking every time I am stuck in a room alone with her, not being so damn unhappy I even considered running away with a complete stranger. But I can't leave her.

"What the hell, Kurt?" she falls on the armchair, questioning me with her now apprehensive eyes. The tough remarks have been cancelled and replaced with a newly soft and sweet tone. "What is happening to you?"

"I...I'm sorry" I don't know. I don't know if it's this cursed city, or the lack of inspiration I am having, or that boy who has made me feel emotions I have never even imagined.

"Can we go home?" I ask in a whisper, kneeling down next to her and taking her pale hand in mine. "Please"

She is now the same girl I met five years ago, her look protective and understanding. I know that girl is gone, but who says I'm not gonna like this one better? My head falls on her lap and she starts caressing my hair, tenderly, my cheek brushes her warm denim, while my fingers trace small circles on it. I want to go back in time and forget this past two days. But everytime I close my eyes I can see only that mysterious boy playing the violin, I can feel only his mouth on mine, our desperate need of each other, his hands rubbing my back, I can hear only his music and his raspy voice against my ear. My ear that is now being grazed by her metallic bracelets as she pets me, making me shiver at the touch of the cold material against my skin.

I need to leave this place when I still can, return to my monotonous life and to a trap I built for myself.

••

I grab him by the cuff of his shirt, breathless. We ran for almost an hour, chasing each other through the park, laughing and stumbling all the way until he turns to me, his deep iris reflecting my puzzled expression. He cups his hands around my face and steps forward, his thumb tracing softly my jawline...

This pattern has repeated over and over for two weeks. I wake up sweating and hanging on the cotton sheets, the sun hasn't risen yet. I grab my phone, the artificial light spreading in the whole room. 2:19. Five hours until I have to get up, but there is no use trying to sleep. My dreams would be haunted by that figure over and over again, leaving me unsatisfied and irritated. The air is suddenly dense and asphyxiating, my throat burns and my nerves start to tense. It's been the seventh attack in these past three days.

I grasp a tee and a pair of old jeans from the drawer and get dressed as silently as I can.

I shouldn't be outside right now, considered how dangerous this city can get at night, but walking through the almost deserted streets is the only thing that calms me down.

Everything seems fake downtown: the lights of Time Square, the billboards covering every inch of the buildings. The peace of darkness cannot be found here. There's no difference between night and day. That's the one thing I miss about Ohio, the vastness of the night sky, covered by hundreds and hundreds of stars. Burt loved stars. We'd spend hours and hours on the porch, just observing a whole different world above our heads, filled with magical shining creatures, silently deciding of the faith of humanity. Times Square is almost claustrophobic. I get away from the theater district, trying to be alone with the city who harbored me when I was in the storm, who sheltered me in time of need, my home and safe place.

I can't help thinking about him now, I picture him in every dark corner, walking on every sidewalk, his violin case hanging on his side, his hand holding it firmly and yet tenderly. But he isn't here, the few notes that start playing aren't his. I need to see him again, one last time, just to confirm the picture in my head, just to know he hasn't disappeared.

But how to find him in a city that is far from being small, knowing he could be everywhere, without a phone, a name?There is no chance to meet him if I stay here anyway. I'm going back. as soon as possible.

Something cold and sharp suddenly touches my head. Ache. My head is breaking in pieces, each one going in a different direction. My knees touch the ground, colliding with the hard asphalt of the sidewalk. my whole body is loose and cold. All my strength has left me. I can't move or scream for help, I can't even open my eyes. They are closed shut. Drops. Wet drops are all over my shivering body. They become more and more rapid as they fall from the sky and now each one feels like a knife made of ice against the bare skin of my face and wetting my clothes. I try to remember a song, just to check if at least the brain is still working. Goddamnit. How was it? _A little fall of rain._ It is not the right time to sing. _Can hardly hurt me now._ My mind is somewhere, detached, surrounded by a blur, while I lie on the pavement, freezing during a November night. _You are here, that's all I need to know._ No one will come to save me.


End file.
